


Flammable

by NimWallace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, One Shot, References to Depression, Smoking, Worried Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 20:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19708990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: Aziraphale has taken up a concerning habit. Crowley is worried. Heaven is angry.





	Flammable

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a request from an anonymous reader. Thank you, dear reader! Enjoy some angst.

  
  
  
Angels are flammable.   
When it started, Crowley didn’t know. It was never a problem for him, when he was angel. He was never near fire, as much as he played with it.   
Perhaps it was because Hell invented fire, because fire is inherently sinful. We light up only to burn, don’t we?   
Of course, unhealthy habits were something he’d dabbled in, too. He’d tried ectasy, when it first came around, then immediately sobered himself because he DID NOT like it. He ended up having a hand in the “war on drugs” that Nancy Reagan allegedly came up with. Ended up getting a pat on the back from Hell and a very confused note from Heaven. Evidently, they both found the outcome in different tastes.   
As far as smoking went, he’d had a cigar or two. He’d had a cigarette because he thought it looked kind of cool, but he ended up not liking it. Tasted bad, harsh on the lungs, made him a bit naseaus. Oh well.   
Smoking was considered a sin by Heaven, as were all forms of self-destructive behavior. It wasn’t the sort of thing that would get you put in Hell, it was just sort of. . . .frowned upon. Like petty thievery, or door-to-door salesmen.   
So of course, Crowley was very shocked when he saw a plume of smoke curling into the air in front of A. Z Fell’s bookshop.   
At first, he thought it must simply be someone else, stopping for a fag in the street, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was _Aziraphale_.   
This was a whole new level of shock.   
“ _Angel_ ,” he said. “Is that a fag?”   
“Bit of a rude thing to call me,” Aziraphale teased nervously as the cigarette miracled out of existence.   
“Don’t joke about that,” Crowley said darkly, now even more concerned. That wasn’t the sort of humor Aziraphale typically indulged in. “Where you _smoking_?”   
Aziraphale twiddled his hands, then turned to go inside. Crowley followed him.   
“I’ve only done it a few times, my dear, it’s nothing to concern yourself with,” the angel insisted. “Tea?”   
“Wha--I want to _talk_ about this!” Crowley said in exasperation. Was Aziraphale really going to deflect right now? “When did this start? Is something wrong?”   
“No. How about oolong?”   
Crowley ignored the angel’s flustered quest for sugar and cream as the kettle boiled.   
“Aziraphale, what’s going on? Has something happened?”   
“It’s _nothing_ , Crowley, now drop it,” Aziraphale said darkly.   
He did, for now.  
  
Aziraphale didn’t smoke in front of him, but the demon could smell it on his breath and no matter how well he cleaned up, still found ashes and spare packs in the shop.   
He was getting very worried now.   
The worst part was the coughing.   
A smoker’s cough is very different from a regular cough--it is deep and guttural, shaking the body of the victim violently and sometimes even resulting in vomiting. It is extremely disturbing to watch.   
So when Aziraphale began to _hack_ , to keel over and stop in his path to choke on his own lungs, Crowley felt like he could cry.   
“ _Angel_ ,” he said. He put a hand on Aziraphale’s back until the coughing slows and eventually ceases. When it was over, the angel’s face was pale from it.   
“Sorry about that, my dear boy,” he said.   
“Aziraphale, _please_ \--”   
“I said sorry, Crowley.” 

The next time Crowley caught him, it’s because his visit, like most of his visits, is a surprise.   
He’d just bought two tickets to see the London Symphony Orchestra, hoping that that might cheer the angel up a bit, but is defeated when he walked into the shop to find Aziraphale curled up on the sofa, holding a cigarette with a violently shaking hand.   
Instantly, he knew something was very, very wrong.   
“Aziraphale?” He was at his side in a moment, taking his hand, feeling his pulse. It’s not necessary, but he has one, and it functions. It was far too fast. “Angel, what is it? _Talk to me_ , please, _talk to me_.” He was so frustrated he could cry. Aziraphale’s expression was agonized.   
“I-I just burned myself a bit, is all,” he muttered, and held up his arm. A horrific red welt was searing into his angelic skin, worse than any normal cigarette burn Crowley had ever seen before.   
“Oh _Aziraphale_ ,” he gasped. “That looks--it looks like a Hellfire burn.”   
“Punishment, I suppose,” Aziraphale said miserably. “Turning my lights into Hellfire. Not enough to kill me, mind you. But it does hurt.”   
Crowley slowly took the cigarette from his quivering hand and discorporated it. Then, as gently as he could, he healed some of the burn. He couldn’t fully heal Hellfire, but he did what he could.   
Tears began to stream down Aziraphale’s face--from physical or emotional pain, he wasn’t sure.   
Crowley wrapped him in his arms, pulling him tightly in. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale cry before. Not in the 6,000 years he’d known him. He didn’t like it, either.   
“What’s wrong, angel?” he said softly. Aziraphale shuddered.   
“I’m sorry, Crowley, I’ve been cold to you,” he wept. “I--I’ve just--I haven’t felt. . . .right, and. . .the smoking, it calmed my nerves a bit, so I thought it wouldn’t hurt, every now and again, but then I couldn’t stop. . .”   
Crowley rubbed circles into his back soothingly.   
“It’s all right. Breathe. Just breathe, for a moment.”   
Aziraphale did, gulping in big breaths until his crying slowed. The Hellfire was still burning his skin wretchedly.   
“Let me help you,” Crowley said. “You don’t need to be alone, in this. I--I get like this sometimes too, you know? Get in a rut, can’t seem to dig myself out. Feels like you’ll never be happy again, right? But you will. Just--let me help you. No more smoking.”   
Aziraphale nodded, sniffling. He had a long way to go--he supposed Crowley did, too.   
But he had help. 


End file.
